Today I wrote something.
It’s not much: just a few pages of a rough draft. It’s embarrassingly shitty and needs heavy revisions before I would even begin to think about letting it see the light of day. It needs the fine tuning of a sledgehammer.
But I wrote something. I wrote part of a story—fiction, not a blog post. After a year of crippling writer’s block (rītərs bläk n. the condition of being unable to overcome the mental/physical/emotional barriers that get in the way of one’s ability to write without self-consciousness), I wrote something. And for the first time in over a year, I actually enjoyed writing fiction.
It’s a start.